


Christmas 1944

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 12:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16872729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Into a bleak Christmas, a tiny ray of light and hope for the Command Crew of Stalag 13.





	Christmas 1944

It looked to be a more bleak Christmas than usual, not that Christmas in a prisoner of war camp was anything to cheer about at the best of times. But now packages from home just weren't getting there, not anymore, even Red Cross shipments being confiscated by the krauts. Well, half the time the mail wasn't getting through either, and didn't THAT just jolly things up! The mess hall had started serving up meals that made them think back wistfully to the ones they used to call 'slop', and the wood ration had once again been cut in half. It wasn't much better on the guards' side either; luckily that just left the guards despondent, not belligerent, one of those 'be thankful for small favors' things that Carter kept trying to use to keep up their spirits. "And I for one find that sort of an attitude bloody annoying, Andrew!" was the response from Peter Newkirk.

Kinch thought wistfully about last Christmas when things hadn't been so bad, when Newkirk had actually gotten involved for once, making special gifts for the Command Crew based on that conversation in Barracks 2 about their favorite things. He still shook his head at how much thought and care and time the brash Cockney had put into the process. Hell, the outright love, though he knew he would find himself taking a fist to the jaw if he actually said THAT out loud, since Newkirk had still been trying to play the self-absorbed care-for-naught. For their brash Englishman to even get mildly involved in Christmas had been an oddity; from what Kinch had heard, there had been years he'd spent Christmas Eve, Christmas Day in the Cooler, sometimes the whole month or more, thereby missing the whole thing; whether that was by chance or design was frequently debated among the crew, though never in his presence, of course. Yet, last year, he'd played a big part, and had even seemed to enjoy it, if only a little.

This year he doubted that would be the case; Newkirk had been getting more and more morose, if that was the right word. He'd lost far too much weight, more skin over bones now than anything else, and that fire inside that had kept him going these long years seemed only cold ash, matching the grey pallor of his skin. Sometimes Carter and LeBeau could tease a flicker of the old flame into view, but not always, not even often. Kinch couldn't remember what caused that, not a specific incident, but he knew he SHOULD remember. Sometimes that bothered him, that he didn't, but then it would be like a gentle hand touched his shoulder, and the worry and the wisp of an uncomfortable memory would fade away, and he was more at ease again.

"Kinch, we must watch him very carefully, yes? He does not need another stay in the Cooler, it is freezing in there; and his temper, his mood right now might cause that to happen. And I think he is planning something." LeBeau was worried, rightfully so, having spotted Newkirk eyeing one of the biggest of the new guards in such a calculating manner. Well, it wouldn't be the first time Newkirk had pulled something just in order to avoid spending Christmas with the rest of them, not wanting his own depression to spread to them. Worse, though he didn't say anything to Kinch, that look reminded him of the early days, when it seemed Newkirk was actively looking for ways to have someone put him out of his misery.

They had finally gotten that last lone airman out, just two days ago, and Olsen, their Outside Man, was back with them, though rather battered, having run into some trouble he refused to discuss, other than to assure them it had nothing to do with their operation. LeBeau remembered the visit from Olsen while he was in the hospital and wondered if one of those lovely ladies Olsen spent so much time with either had a boyfriend, or maybe a husband, or whether one of those ladies found out about all the OTHER ladies. Well, yes, he knew that visit hadn't been real, had taken place only in his own mind, but somehow he just had a feeling. If he had been less worried about Newkirk, he would have asked Olsen, maybe teased him a little, but for now, it was Peter who had his attention. It was attention Newkirk would have as soon foregone.

"Louie, will you just give it a rest??! Just let me sleep, won't ya?" Newkirk answered LeBeau's attempt at conversation. The ceiling above the Englishman's bunk should have been worn away to nothing by now, from the harsh intensity of those blue-green eyes staring at it relentlessly. Carter hadn't had any better luck a little earlier, although if anyone could rouse Newkirk, it was usually Andrew Carter. It was worrisome that even Andrew couldn't reach him now. Once again the Englishman was stretched out in his bunk, feigning sleep.

Kinch didn't even try to call his bluff, he was so busy with his own thoughts and concerns, especially about their need for new parts for the radio, along with other supplies. Supply drops had become hazardous and far between due to the increased activity in the air; Hogan still made the requests, but even when his requests were acknowledged and promises made, somehow they were rarely fulfilled, not in their entirety. They'd had a drop two weeks ago, but it had only included half of what had been requested, though there had been several parcels of medical supplies, thankfully.

Kinch thought cynically that it was that Hogan didn't even seem sincere in making the requests anymore; it just seemed like he was going through the motions, with that and maybe a lot more. He certainly didn't argue and press London like he'd done before. 

Kinch felt he should resent that, but somehow, he felt more relief than anything else, like a Hogan going through the motions was better than a possible alternative. No, that didn't make a lot of sense, but whenever he started to worry about it, think he should talk to Hogan about it, he'd catch glimpses, bizarre and troubling visions, almost like flashbacks that made him think twice. No, talking to Hogan wasn't the answer.

Instead, he'd talked to Scotty Wilson, their medic, the man who'd seen them through so much. Scotty had gotten a really odd look on his face, then sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Kinch, I doubt you're the only one; try not to worry about it, okay? The things you guys have gone through, it's bound to leave a mark. Sometimes a gap in your memory is there for a purpose; just . . . Just let it be for now." Well, that shouldn't have helped, but somehow it did, and Kinch was able to focus on other things again, like trying to keep Newkirk out of the Cooler.

It hadn't been easy, it had taken the four of them - LeBeau, Carter, Kinch, and Olsen - working together. Sometimes it had been by distracting the rangy Englishman, sometimes by distracting the seeming target of that determined 'I'm going to get myself in trouble no matter what' attitude. Luckily, the guards were almost as worn down as they were, and even the ones newly transferred in weren't really looking for trouble. If they had been, it might not have worked, for all their efforts, because as Andrew said, "boy, if ANYONE can piss someone off, it's Peter! Not that he's not a great guy, he really is, but boy! When he gets his mind set . . ."

 

Christmas Day, 1944 -  
Well, no one was in the Cooler, which was good, since it was probably at least double-digit degrees colder than their barracks, with much less in the way of blankets. They'd combined what little there was to make a sparse addition to the weak potato soup and bread served in the mess hall. The days of being able to scavenge supplies for LeBeau to make a decent meal were long gone. 

Still, each had saved tidbits from past Red Cross packages, having started months ago, when it became obvious not all the shipments were making it through. Over the summer and into fall, LeBeau had dried some of the mint from plants he'd started from the seeds Newkirk had obtained for him, and he had put a pot of mint tea on to steep. 

And they were together, all of them. Somehow, by them all working together, they'd prevented their surly Englishman from ending up in the Cooler, but that didn't mean he was in a jolly mood. 

Well, none of them were, truth be told, and they were all on edge to some extent or another. Schultz had come by to wish them "Frohliche Weignachten, boys", and Langenscheidt had come in as well. Both were very subdued greetings. They were in no better spirits; the mail had been disrupted quite thoroughly, and neither of them had been in touch with their families either. Schultz sipped a cup of the hot tea, reminiscing on the mint tea his grandmother used to make when he would visit them. He hurriedly finished his drink and left when Hogan breezed out of his quarters, hair neatly in place, cap set at a jaunty angle. While he wasn't quite as robust as he once was, he seemed to have weathered the camp far better than the others in the Command Crew; perhaps his close association with the Kommandant aided in that, with hot water and better food being available in the Kommandant's quarters than in the barracks. Those frequent, almost daily chess games and conversations seemed to be paying off.

Hogan had proclaimed his intention to spend the afternoon and evening with Klink, chess, dinner, whatever. He'd turned to Newkirk, and his smile grew. "Peter, I think you should come . . ." and they all saw Newkirk flinch, his body stiffening in rejection of what he knew was coming, but without raising his eyes from the cards in front of him. That smile from Hogan was charming as always, but there was a flatness in his dark eyes that caused a chill in everyone. 

But before anyone could speak up, come up with some reason, any reason why Newkirk shouldn't join Hogan at the Kommandant's quarters, their commander had gotten a puzzled look on his face, shook his head as if to throw off a troublesome midge. He blinked several times; then, his face cleared, and he just gave them a brisk 'stay out of trouble, guys. I'll keep Klink occupied til after roll call or later." The door to the barracks closed behind him, and there was a deep sigh of relief from everyone. 

LeBeau refilled the cups with the hot mint tea, and they settled down to pass the rest of the day, each drawing back into their own thoughts. Kinch had just settled back on his bunk to re-read that tattered copy of "Ten Thousand Leagues Under The Sea" when he heard it, the little tap-tap that showed someone was underneath and wanted to come up.

He sprang to his feet, alerted the others (since you never could tell; that entrance had let in some very surprising things over their tenure). But when the bunk moved upward to show their medic, Scotty Wilson, they relaxed.

"Hey, Scotty. Want a cup of mint tea?" Kinch asked. 

"Sure, Kinch. Where's the Colonel?" Wilson asked cautiously. He'd thought he'd seen Hogan head in that direction, but he needed to be very, very sure of that.

"Le Colonel, he is with Klink, supposedly for the rest of the day and maybe after," LeBeau answered with a shrug.

Scotty Wilson smiled in relief. "Good. I have a little something for you guys. Think it might brighten your day a little." 

Well, just about anything would have brightened their day beyond where it was then, other than a visit by Major Hochstetter or some of his ilk. But what Scotty had brought them? Ah . . .

Two weeks prior:

Scotty had opened the various packages marked Medical Supplies that had dropped in that last air drop. Bandages, sutures, sulfa, another two packages of that Sustain powder, some of that special lung tea that kept Newkirk going when all else failed, a few other things they desperately needed. Scotty never mentioned when he got another shipment of either of those last items - the Sustain or the tea; he knew it would only piss off their senior officer. He tried to give it on the sly, and the couple of times he'd been caught, he'd just casually told Hogan "just the last of a package I held back for really tough cases." That had seemed to work, but Wilson still hid the supply in a different place each time he brought it out and used it. One couldn't be too careful. 

One package in particular in that last shipment was marked just the same as the rest, 'Medical Supplies', but once he opened it, realized what he had, well, he'd hid that one particularly well. The note right at the top on the inside wasn't long, but caused him to sit down hard on his bunk while he read it once again.

"Hey, Scotty. Thought it best to send this through you, to give it the best chance of getting to the guys for Christmas. Luckily the guy at Transport didn't seem to notice us dropping a few extra packages on his handcart, or switching out the manifest. (Of course, having my little sister distract him didn't hurt!) Hope everything is still holding strong; let me know if you need a booster. By the way, probably best if you keep custody of the letters, less chance of them being found that way. We know you will give the guys as much access as possible. Thanks, Scotty. We all owe you so much, and we won't forget it!" 

There had been no signature, there didn't need to be. Only Michael O'Donnell would have mentioned that 'everything' and the possible need for a 'booster'. Only Michael and his brothers, who'd taken such drastic steps to keep things from imploding here at Stalag 13, gave them the means of keeping the increasingly erratic, increasingly frightening Colonel Hogan from pulling it all down around their ears, causing irreparable damage. No one knew how long the 'conditioning', the selective memory loss would hold, and only Scotty, of those at Stalag 13, retained all the details. Well, SOMEONE had to be in possession of all the facts, and as the camp medic, he was the logical one. Only Michael and his siblings would have arranged this surprise, but the sisters, well, they didn't know everything Michael and the other brothers did, and it would be best if it stayed that way. Scotty didn't know the sisters well, certainly, but the brothers certainly did, and if THEY said it, with that tone in their voices, with that look on their faces, well, Scotty wasn't going to doubt them. God knows there was enough to worry him as it was.

There had been an envelope addressed to each member of the Command Team, LeBeau, Carter, Kinch, Newkirk, plus Olsen, along with Scotty. If their letters were anything like the one Scotty had received, the one he'd opened immediately, they would be deeply treasured. News from his family, their warmest wishes for him and his safety, assurances of their love and concern for him; it seems the siblings had been busy contacting as many of his family as he could, compiling it all into one communication rich with meaning. The closing? "We owe you, Scotty, more than we can say; we will do our best to repay you." Signed, Grandmother O'Dell. He shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment at that signature, but figured he probably didn't need to understand the specifics.

There was a box of cookies as well, another of tea, one of coffee. He would have to take a great deal of care with those, timing it just right, as those things were very scarce right now. Well, maybe he could get away with the 'found it' again, but he doubted it, so he'd just have to be careful. Though surely even Hogan wouldn't be foolish enough to . . . No, it was the envelopes that were most at risk.

And the last, the last highly-at-risk item that made him smile, though it had made his eyes mist over as well. A sketch book, each page different, but picturing each of them with one or more of their family members. Where or how or indeed WHO had managed to come up with the very familiar likenesses, he didn't know. But there he was, with his father and younger sister. Kinch was there, perhaps with his father and mother and two young teenagers. On another page, he recognized Andrew Carter and a warm-faced woman who just had to be his mother. LeBeau had a number of people around him, proving he wasn't the only short one in his family. 

Newkirk had his arm around a pretty young woman who Scotty recognized by a picture Newkirk had showed him - his younger sister Mavis. There were two other women in the background, one much older, one just a bit older than Newkirk probably was; Scotty wasn't sure who they were, not being around for all the stories told in the barracks, but he could see the affection in their eyes as they looked at the Englishman. There was just a faint of something else in the background of that picture, but for the life of him he just couldn't quite make sense of it. Perhaps a large dog, just sitting there, patiently? Somehow he'd never pictured Newkirk as a dog-lover, and he'd never heard the man mention a pet of any kind.

Olsen was shown with an older man and woman, perhaps his parents, but for some reason, there were faint sketches around the page, pictures just vaguely showing the features of several very attractive young female faces.

And the last page? It showed a long table, draped with a tablecloth, laden with a feast, lit with candles, surrounded by chairs and in each chair sat a member of the team, (well, at least everyone except the Colonel) with other chairs interspersed as if waiting for others to arrive. In a graceful arc across the page, in the finest calligraphy, were the words "BLESSED HOMECOMING". There was a window showing slightly, to one side, and through the panes, you could just barely make out sky and clouds and cliffs, a scene of peace. 

Now, as he sat there sipping that mug of tea, munching on one of the cookies from that tin sitting in the middle of the table, he looked from face to face. Each man was engrossed in his own letter, reading it again and again. Carter was the first to get up, make his way to the sketchbook and thumb through it.

"Hey, that's my mom and me!" His voice broke with emotion, and drew the others' attention. They joined him, looking at all the pictures, recognizing themselves, their loved ones. Eagerly they named the people shown there, and Scotty found the women in Newkirk's picture, other than his sister Mavis, were Maudie and Marisol, old and obviously very dear friends. "Like a second mum to me, Maudie was, and Marisol, another sister, one of the bossy older sister types, you know? Can't tell you the number of times they'd thunk me upside the 'ead for some nonsense or the other I'd get up to." It was the most animated they'd heard Newkirk in weeks. "And the dog?" Scotty asked. An odd look came over Newkirk's face, and a surprisingly knowing one over Carter's. "An old friend, Scotty; just an old, very faithful friend."

When they turned to that last page, they fell quiet. "Blessed Homecoming" and a smile came to each of their faces, wistful, hopeful.

They hated to give up the letters, but they knew it was best that way. Well, they had enough reason to seek out Scotty Wilson, quite legitimately, and he'd swore that, whenever possible, he'd give them access to their letters. They all knew the barracks wasn't a safe place for them, not after the last sweep of the guards who, supposedly under Klink's orders, had confiscated so many of the little things they treasured, including their personal letters, Newkirk's origami flower, Carter's little stuffed horse with the colorful saddle.

They had all felt the loss there, not just the owner of any particular set of letters, since they'd all shared those letters, part of what little they DID have to share. The loss of the letters from Caeide at Haven, along with those from Coura, those had hit particularly hard to everyone; those letters had enriched each of their lives in many ways. No, it was best if these precious letters were kept elsewhere.

Still, they took turns keeping watch, while the others read their letters through one more time, before folding them and giving them back to Scotty. Another thumbing through of that sketch book left faint smiles on their faces, and Scotty carefully and gently put that piece of home back in his satchel as well. 

"Another cup of tea, Scotty?" and that came, surprisingly, from Peter Newkirk, that sullen, morose look faded to almost nothing, and it was as if he was back with them, at least somewhat, if not totally, after being gone for so long.

"No, thanks, Newkirk. Look, I've got to be going, but you guys . . ." He hesitated, then very softly, "Merry Christmas, guys. Next Christmas at home." And while he couldn't make it a promise, he did make it seem like a prayer, and they echoed the words, "Merry Christmas, Scotty. Next Christmas at home."


End file.
